Woman (and Other Stories)
by nonsequiturvy
Summary: Companion pieces to Woman. Bandit OQ.
1. Thanks

Prequel to _Woman._ In which two wounded bandits meet in a tavern.

* * *

 _Thanks_

* * *

"So this is what I get for saving your life?" he questions, sounding far too amused for a man whose eye has turned several shades too blue (the center of it already blue enough to drown the sea, she thinks when she gets caught in its gaze). "Not even a simple thank you?"

Regina slides his drink across the way of the table, into his outstretched hand; then, for his wounded eye, a cold-wrapped slab of uncooked meat she'd procured from the barkeep, for one low price of a wink and an ample view of her rear as she'd swept away from the counter.

"You're welcome," she states primly, raw-red knuckles longing to stumble upon that smirk of his instead this time, when it tilts at her just so.

Still, she manages some degree of restraint; their so recent encounter with his cheekbone has left them smarting, after all – though not from any lingering notions of guilt, certainly not. In the heat of that roadside scuffle, with an army hard-pressed to bring back a heart to their Queen, before winter laid the path barren and drove the hunted deeper into hiding…well, who could blame her, really, for mistaking one idiot in green for another in black?

Robin clinks the lip of their mugs together, taking a swig before pressing the meat to his eye, and she watches with a primal sort of fascination as his throat bobs on a heavy swallow and he groans his relief. "Now that we're safely in the company of friends," he says, ignoring her silent scornful brow at his generous use of the term _friends_ – friends don't simply turn up where they're not welcome, and she hadn't _asked_ to be saved – "I have a proposition for you."

Regina scoffs her answer. "What could you possibly have to offer that I could possibly want to accept?"

"Hear me out," he insists. "I've a position open amongst my Merry Men, and I know just the woman to fill it."

"Why?" she wants to know, curious despite herself. "Who's leaving?"

"Oh, I'm not asking you to relieve a man of his post," he shrugs, "I've simply come to realize of late how lacking we are when it comes to particular skills."

"What," drawls Regina, "none of your men know how to throw a proper punch?" and she forcibly squelches the pop of delight in her chest at the sight of him biting back his chuckle.

The meat falls away, having absorbed too much of his warmth to serve much use anymore, and it opens up her view to her own colorful handiwork, glistening patches of green and purple blooming amidst the blue now. She almost winces on his behalf.

"Certainly not any who are willing to throw one at _me_ ," Robin allows, tipping his mug at her again, as though to salute her wilder ways.

" _That's_ why you want me around?" she asks archly. "To blacken the other one too?"

"Have you ever looked into another's eyes," he carries on, abandoning his drink in favor of rummaging around for something crinkled into his breast pocket, "and known you were simply fated to meet them?"

"Fate is for fools," she starts to dismiss, thoughts cut short by the familiar blend of yellowed parchment, a Queen's decree for a traitor's head, unfolding to flatten on the space of table spanning between them.

"A fair likeness," Robin comments as they both stare down at her face, lips thinned into something menacing, though a nameless hand has depicted her to look rather dull in the eyes. "But I had a feeling it wanted for the fire of the real thing."

"A fire is exactly what this is missing," she grumbles in agreement, moving to crumple it into her fist, gaze already trained on the hearth crackling light into their corner of the tavern, but he intercepts her at the wrist.

"I firmly believe – should you join our ranks, that is – you'll find yourself in remarkably good company," he says, as earnestly as she's ever heard him in the short while they've now been formally acquainted, with the sun not yet set on this day their names exchanged hands. His smirk softens now, a gentle echo of the one he'd had at the ready the moment she turned from the fallen guard at her feet to find the arrow had come from her rival's bow.

Robin must know her hesitation better than she, his touch almost tender where hers had endeavored to knock his world askew, and surely she's weak from the pain and not from other things when she forgets her resolve to stay reasonably wary of his offer.

"Besides," and the full brunt of his smirk returns to distract her, "it couldn't hurt to have the extra protection."

"I don't need protecting," she's insisting immediately, falling further away from the point, deeper into that blue of his gaze.

"Perhaps not, but that hand at the very least will need looking after." He reaches for it now, without awaiting the permission she'd have never given, leaving her wrist to encircle her palm, thumbing broken skin and loosening a handkerchief from another of his pockets.

"Your face is what did this, not the Queen's Guard," she argues, half-hearted even to her own ears, and evidently deaf to his, as he winds the fabric tight around her sore and aching knuckles.

"Come with me," Robin tells her – does not ask – and like a sudden fool, she will follow.

She'll not be long with them, she promises herself, just until she's regained a horse and, she supposes, a fully functional hand; but winter makes its fast approach, and some fires are best kept in the company of those most attentive to the ways of their burning.


	2. Found - What's His - Bound - Mine

**a|n:** some more _woman_ from the tumblr vault for you guys! the first one, _found_ , is an immediate sequel of sorts, and the other three are set in the sometime-not-so-distant future. i could probably be convinced to expand on any of these, or if you're interested in more pre- _woman_ robin/regina, let me know ;)

* * *

 _Found_

 _(In which two bandits hold hands and sit on a log.)_

* * *

They talk well into the night, trading stories of their scars while moonlight casts its blessing over long-spent timber and a fire that dies in their neglect; heat of a different source spreads, tingly-swift, and she thinks it could be his cloak, not-so-casually slung to huddle their shoulders, or perhaps that he's yet to let go of her hand (she curls a firm finger over his wrist, in case he starts to get any ideas).

They wonder at the ways they've unknowingly wounded the other—her sneering, his smirking—until she catches herself in a smile, a sneaky, disobedient thing that his in answer was made to intensify, and then there's cause for wonder in other ways.

They don't speak of much again for some time, leaving the silence for the forest crickets and wind-stirred leaves to fill, while Robin maps out her palm with a fingertip, the rising curve of her lips with a half-hooded gaze, and the air takes on a hushed new sound.

"Regina," he murmurs, and she finds there's very little to do now but to follow the way of her heart, pressing a nose to his cheek as her name tumbles out to meet his in a kiss, "I—"

" _There_ you are!" bursts forth a voice that jolts them both off-course, announcing Will's arrival before he plows through the tree line, "I've been lookin' everywhere, thought the two of you numbskulls might've…" his eyes go boggled, his steps instantly faltering to backtrack, "… _not_ gotten lost, then, I take it."

* * *

 _What's His_

 _(In which Robin wears a new shade of green.)_

* * *

She's furious with him, not for the first time (certainly not the last, she's sure), and no number of crooked, eye-crinkling smiles will suffice for a genuine apology, or dissuade her from paying him back somehow.

The man Regina finds for the job looks harmless enough—and handsome enough too, his grin intended to dazzle when she sidles up to him at the bar with a gaze cast coyly aside, luring him instantly in ( _men_ ; all so laughably predictable, including her own).

She collects every greasy compliment the way she might a gold coin, pocketing each along with the satisfaction of knowing who else is near enough to hear them; she's not the only one with a territory to claim, after all, and her coquettish giggles fill in the growing gaps of silence behind her.

What Regina doesn't bargain for—she simpers and flirts, and the fool's like putty in her hands, at first—is his apparent fascination with her hair, a finger inching closer, boldly, uninvited, but then his entire arm is swinging awkwardly sideways into the air, as a blur of green and the smell of forest suddenly blocks its path to her hair.

"Stop it," she starts to scold, just as a sickening crunch knocks Robin violently back, crimson gushing from his nose between her hastening fingertips as she follows his collapse to the ground; but she thinks Robin couldn't look prouder through his pain, or her frantic fussing, when the man by the bar surrenders at the sound of her distressed, admonishing fury, its message loud and clear—this bloody mess may be an idiot, but she will always be _his_.

* * *

 _Bound_

 _(In which there's a corset and John is one lucky, lucky man.)_

* * *

"I don't see how this charade is strictly necessary," Regina tries once more, her protests broken by a forcible rush of breath from her lungs, "or why you insist on— _oof_ —" a pointed scowl to meet his rueful face in the mirror, "—helping me when I know perfectly well how to lace my own corset."

She'd rather not deliberate too long on how he'd learned himself, nor give a gasp its proper due when Robin tugs her flush to his chest, pressing palms on her waist, whispering warmth to her throat: "Perhaps I simply wanted to prove to you, milady, that I can tie them up just as well as I can take them off."

"Yes," she allows, "you've proven quite handy when it comes to the latter," and he drops a kiss between chuckles to the shell of her ear, murmuring vows to make himself useful in more ways than one when they're alone again that night.

"You forget I'll be busy playing John's betrothed," sighs Regina, oh so regretfully, "I suppose I'll have to let him do the honors instead," and Robin tenses instantly behind her. As if it hadn't been the idiot's idea in the first place to don her in some fancy frock and parade her about on John's well-fed elbow—a pretty decoy for the court of noblemen they thoroughly intend to swindle tonight, though she's made it no less than clear whose side she'd rather stand by.

"I know I said to act the part while I locate the vault," frowns Robin, "but there shouldn't be a need for such…canoodling with Little John," and if the thought tightens his grip into something ever so possessive, then, well, he deserves every inch of her silent, mocking brow.

"Weren't you the one trying to convince me that there's hardly anything _little_ about him?" Regina wonders innocently, while Robin's face sours and sours.

And it's no wonder to anyone, really, when the heist is pulled off—just not exactly as planned, with a last-minute swap of her dress for some trousers, pointed heels for a pointier dagger in her boot. A blushing knave of hearts in a wig is escorted into the ballroom instead, while she and Robin darken dungeons and sneak through corridors hand-in-hand, hers in the lead, until he tugs free to unravel her corset (proceeding to make himself useful indeed) when they reach the vault at last.

* * *

 _Mine_

 _(In which the matter of sharing tents is discussed.)_

* * *

His question falls between kisses, over sloping breasts, a gentle press to her heartbeat: "How would you like to move into my tent?" As if all of camp didn't already know, who belonged to whom, by their breathless calling of names well into each night.

Her scowling reply (a hitch, when he moves to meet it)—"What's wrong with mine?"—isn't meant as an invitation; but she finds, with his smirking If you insist, that she does.

His belongings, crammed into a satchel, unsettle her footing in later search for water, and her thief is smug even in sleep.


	3. Straight Shot

**a|n:** i got a few requests for more of _found_ from the previous chapter, so i guess i'll be writing a proper _woman_ sequel soon enough! :) in the meantime…

* * *

 _Straight Shot_

 _(In which Regina mothers the Merry Men and Robin comes home with a question.)_

* * *

She wakes to sunlight and the itch of a scroll in place of his beard on her skin, words penned to parchment in his hasty, slanting scrawl: _Back this evening. Take care of the lads whilst I'm away?_ — _R_

Men lift their porridge bowls in greeting when Regina joins with the line to the cast-iron pot, and some go as far as a jovial thump on her arm. Little John, puffed out in his pride and an ill-fitting apron, winkingly ladles her extra slabs of pork belly, festooning the rim with generous pops of blue and red berries. (They'd been her own, healthier contribution to their meal for the day, fortuitously foraged from a late night out when she and Robin sought safer—sweeter—pockets of forest to privately enjoy one another.)

But no number of subtle inquiries, nor some far more pointed, will budge a single one of them into spilling their leader's whereabouts—not even John, who can, quite honestly, be a bit of a gossip at times.

It's a regrettable setback that patience is hardly a strength of Regina's, but still the day flies forward, despite her swelling irritation at all the men around her (and the only one who isn't). She spends the bulk of the sunlight settling their scuffles and straightening out Will Scarlet's poor, hopeless bow arm, then doing the same for Much the miller's son's nose when Will clumsily puts a sudden crook in it with a wild backswing of his elbow.

Miraculously, Will's arrow—narrowly missing a very fortunate Friar—embeds squarely between the eyes of Robin's wanted poster, which Regina had kindly set up for target practice.

Will crows in triumph while Much drops to the ground with a baleful glare and bloodied nose, looking rather furious that he'd chosen the exact worst moment to stroll behind them when he had.

"It's too bad Robin will never believe you made that shot," Regina comments dryly to Will, once she has Much decently patched up and not scowling quite so murderously.

Will looks distraught, bow falling despondently to his side. "Well if he hadn't gone on that bloody job—" and Much promptly resumes his glowering, making sudden throat-slitting gestures.

"What job?" Regina pounces instantly, and Will cows.

"That's not—not quite what I said, is it?" he stammers, scratching furiously at his fast-reddening neck.

"That is exactly what you said."

"Well it's no _ordinary_ job," he defends, "it's not like he's _stealing_ it."

"So what, then, he's _buying_ it instead?" she almost laughs, until Will's guilty grimace throws her into speechless bewilderment. What could possibly entice a thief to go through the trouble of actually purchasing something? "What is _it_ , Will?"

"Y'know," he says evasively, "Robin didn't exactly say."

Regina resolves to box Will soundly in the ears, when Much rather opportunely resumes his howling about the pain in his nose, and she's properly distracted again until nightfall.

She finally leaves them to their ale and their campfire stories, spent and surly as she retires to the woods, seeking some fresh space to air out the rising fumes of her anger. She's no way of knowing which direction Robin had taken off to, and whatever tracks she might've recovered of his have surely been lost to the interluding winds and footfalls of long-gone woodland creatures.

She wanders, not knowing where her steps have led her until she crosses into the clearing, where they'd first looked at one another and truly understood the things that passed unsaid between them. The log they'd shared as one fire died and another ignited still sits there undisturbed, save for patches of overgrown moss. She walks to examine it now, crouching down, mentally cataloguing each of the grooves and their sprouting greenery.

The dull but firm _thwack!_ has her keeling backward in shock, mouth dangled open at the sight of an arrow's shaft protruding from the log. A glint of gold spins and spins at the head of it, pinned there by its own momentum, until it slows to a stop and she sees the emerald at its center.

"Robin," she gasps, and he's already made it several paces into the clearing before she turns to gape up at his half-crooked grin. "You bought this?"

"Ah, my men are not to be trusted with secrets, I see," sighs Robin regretfully, seating himself to press a kiss to her smile. "But I couldn't very well ask for your hand without their permission, much less a ring I didn't pay for, now could I?"


	4. Worth It

**a|n:** i think this is the last of _woman_ -verse from the tumblr vault, which means i'll start writing some new stuff for them soon...! *is excited*

* * *

 _Worth It_

 _(In which Robin and Regina share a tent and Little John learns that certain sacrifices are well worth making, in the end.)_

* * *

He's happy for them. Truly, he is.

In all the years that he's known Robin, John can't recall him ever being so, well, bloody besotted with someone. He's glad for it, really, that the two had finally come to their senses. It had been a welcome change at first, particularly after long months of Robin looking lovesick and miserable, and Regina remaining remarkably – stubbornly – oblivious to it all (though it was clear as damn daylight to the rest of the men).

John's not certain what, or who, had finally forced a confession out of them.

All he knows is that roughly a fortnight ago, Regina had been acting surlier than usual, Robin had said something cryptic about foraging for dinner, and then they'd both simply disappeared. Will Scarlet, eventually thinking them lost in the woods, had gone out searching only to wind up with more than he'd bargained for, looking terribly embarrassed upon his return with a pink-cheeked but rather blissfully preoccupied Robin and Regina trailing behind him, murmuring things into the other's ear.

Since then, they've become…somewhat difficult to be around.

It's not, as John might have expected, that the giddiness of new love has inspired copious outpourings of public affection for one another; they've actually been fairly tolerable in that regard.

Robin is, of course, prone to smiling a bit stupidly at her whenever she's not watching (suffice it to say that the rest of camp is not so thoughtfully spared). Regina, on her part, has been known to turn rather rosy after Robin has the occasional audacity to steal a kiss from her in front of an audience, though it's a fact she'll deny to the bitter end ("What are you looking at?" she'll scowl at every last one of them, even as that traitorous flush continues to spread).

Their tendency to squabble over trivial things has regrettably doubled since their coming together, much to everyone's chagrin. Nowadays, though, instead of finding fault in the other's knowledge of trade routes, or underground passageways into Lord Such-and-Such's castle, it will be in regards to the Sheriff of Nottingham's partiality for dark-haired, headstrong lasses, and Regina's willingness to use that to her every advantage in spite of Robin's most adamant protestations.

"I don't like the way he looks at you," he rumbles to her after each job, and John doesn't think he's ever seen his friend so beside himself with anger. "As though you were a prize to be won, or something pretty to display on his arm."

"You're just jealous that I'm his type and you aren't," Regina will tease him, but faltering, always, when he refuses to be humored, and these will be the rare moments when she comes to him first, pressing their shoulders carefully together until he softens enough to embrace her in full.

Those are also the nights they take their disputes back to their tent, where they then proceed to settle them, loudly and emphatically, to their (thoroughly mutual) satisfaction over the course of many hours, and John will have nodded off several times by the fire before he can deem it reasonably safe to return to his own tent, stationed most inconveniently alongside theirs.

But he's happy for them, Robin and Regina, and if a few hours' sleep are lost on account of affording them some much-needed privacy for the purposes of…enjoying one another, so to speak, then John will suffer it gladly.

Despite the smirking looks he gets from Will in the mornings, after John's elbowed his way to the front of the coffee line feeling sullen, sleep-deprived and hardly in the mood for the lad's innocent remarks on how restful his own evening had been. Even when Robin and Regina's pursuit of alone time begins to bleed into the afternoons as well, their tent abustle in a telling manner, and there would go any hope John had of getting in a lie-down while the sun is at its most unbearable.

He sits obligingly through Tuck's concerns regarding the darkening circles around his eyes, the drooping fit to his outer garments, and he graciously accepts the various herbal remedies he's offered to aid with his sleepless nights ("Works wonders for insomnia," the good Friar tells him kindly, while Much – the bastard – suppresses a snicker).

But John's sacrifice is a noble one, he knows, and made entirely worthwhile one evening late into autumn, when Robin and Regina emerge from their tent with a matching bashfulness and a very important announcement to make – that they're expecting an addition to their offbeat family of thieves and strays, soon to be the littlest of all the Merry Men ("Or woman," Robin muses, dimples winking at the thought, and it's no secret where he stands on the matter).

Celebratory pints are passed around the campfire – Will solemnly pours Regina a flagon of dragon berry juice instead – and John (that'll be _Uncle_ John, before too long) beams, and toasts, and yes, it was all quite worth it indeed.


	5. (Pretty) Woman

In which Robin's Merry Men find themselves properly schooled on what it is to be a woman. Based on the prompt: "The only thing you're good for is annoying me."

* * *

 _(Pretty) Woman_

* * *

She's glaring again.

Well – not _glaring_ , strictly speaking, so much as doing that thing where her face goes stone-like and unreadable – but he's been on the receiving end of such looks often enough himself to know when she's not terribly _pleased_ about something, either.

He's not certain what compels him to go and cheer her up a bit, but whatever it is, he's regretting it immediately as he strides over to her corner table, having to clear his throat several times before she finally bothers looking up at him.

"Hi, Will," she says, with a rather poor show of enthusiasm, considering all the trouble he's gone to in approaching her. But he's determined to see this through now, he is – isn't Ana always telling him to think a bit less of himself and more about others every once in a while? – and so he settles in beside Regina, props an elbow onto the table and smiles at her in a magnanimous way.

She's trying very hard not to glance toward the bar again, where Robin has found himself tasked with entertaining some sultry young redhead, an exotic-looking thing who's already turned multiple heads in the room, with smokily shadowed eyes and a heaving bosom near to spilling out of her lace-trimmed corset (…not that Will's been paying much attention, really).

As far as Will's concerned, Robin only appears to be doing his due diligence as a gentleman, no more, no less, smiling politely at the girl and bending gamely to pick up the handkerchief she's just dropped to the floor with a careless sort of giggle. If his face winds up a touch too close to her chest when he stands upright again, well, who could blame the man when she's given him so little room to himself in the first place?

"You've nothing to fear with him, love," Will tells Regina in his most reassuring tone, smiling brighter still when her only response is to stare blankly at him. "With Robin, I mean. He's fancied other women before—" that stare of hers begins to narrow, and he hurries on to make his point, "—but trust me when I say none of them could ever hold a candle to you, in his eyes."

She goes on staring, and then he adds with a sincerity even she can't argue with (punchy little thing that she is), "I've personally never seen a man so bloody in love with someone, until you came in and shook up his life."

He thinks he might have won her over with that, and he's congratulating himself on a job solidly done when she sighs and mutters, rather cryptically, "It's not that."

Will deflates instantly, dropping all pretense at mollycoddling her – if she insists on being so strong-headed about it, he decides, then she can very well handle her own damn moods. "Well what the bloody hell is it then, Regina?" It's not that he doesn't care, he defends inwardly when his mental image of Ana turns on him with a fairly sour expression; it's simply that he's at a loss for what exactly he's expected to do about it.

Ana, of course, would know just the right things to say, he thinks, glumly kicking himself for walking into some situation that only a woman could straighten back out. Honestly, who can understand these creatures sometimes?

"Don't worry about it," Regina says maddeningly, as if to prove his point, and, well, if the lady insists. Will shrugs, letting the matter drop.

The redhead is now coyly reaching for one of the two pitchers in Robin's hands, though there's nothing Will had seen to suggest such an offer had been made to her. Robin, bless the man, looks slightly chagrined but says nothing, kindly keeping a straight face while she takes a sip and grimaces as daintily as she can at the unexpectedly bitter brew.

Grinning to himself – Granny's ale certainly isn't for the faint of heart, and Will can only think of one woman aside from the old broad herself who's been known to drink him under the table – he turns to Regina, looking to have a good laugh with her at the fair maiden's expense.

Regina, however, is now making a thorough study of the empty cup in front of her, pondering things she's not likely to share with him any time soon. Will scowls openly at her (if she notices, she doesn't let on) and slouches forward in his seat, wondering if he's to spend the remainder of his evening in such disagreeable company. Most peculiarly then, she begins picking at the stray hairs from her braid, examining the ends of them before reaching to flick bits of leaf and other remnants of forest from her collar in a similarly irritable manner.

He's no idea what's gotten into her, quite truthfully.

To Will's immense relief, Robin is eventually successful in excusing himself, making his way to their table with one drink still in hand, clapping Will across the shoulder and then pressing a rueful smile into Regina's hair before dropping down to her other side. He slides the flagon over to her as something of an apology, biting a lip in amusement when she primly lifts it without a word.

He murmurs things to her that Will can't quite make out, not that he's particularly eager to anyway, and Regina suddenly becomes rather immersed with her ale in a way that makes Will suspect she's only doing so to hide a smile of her own.

The redhead, visibly taken aback by this turn of events, proceeds to pout by the bar before her gaze snags most alarmingly on Will instead. Cowed, he turns toward Regina and Robin post haste, talking too-loudly at them about something or other until he's reasonably confident that he's back in the clear.

He's already dug himself into a right mess with Ana these past few months, apparently by being no more "oblivious about everything" than usual, whatever that means; it wouldn't do to give her any more reasons for tossing him out on his arse in the middle of the sodding night, wondering what it was he'd done this time to disappoint her so.

Women. Honestly. Bloody mysteries, the lot of them.

They retire earlier than usual that night, Robin giving their excuses to Will before folding Regina into his cloak and nudging her toward the tavern door. Will helps himself to the rest of the ale and waves them off with a jokingly put-upon "Well get on with it then, you two," followed by a wink for the lady, grinning broadly when she rolls her eyes at him.

She doesn't soften until they've reached the exit, leaning upward to touch her nose ever so briefly against Robin's jawline. He turns into her with another smile, deposited just beside her ear this time, and the door swings shut on them right as Will starts to feel as though he ought to look away.

She's still settling into this, he supposes, this business of being loved, and quite frankly he can't think of a man better suited for the job than Robin. He'd meant what he said about the two of them – even the most obtuse sort of person could easily catch on to the depth of Robin's feeling for Regina – and he knows that none of it was news to her, really.

All the same, Will can't help but think her reaction to that woman by the bar had been a rather curious one indeed.

…

"It's odd," he's confiding to Ana later that evening, and she looks curiously up from the handful of blooms he'd nicked from a shop on his way back to their cottage. "Regina's never really struck me as the jealous sort before. Now her counterpart, on the other hand…"

He grins at the memory of Robin during a recent job of theirs, reluctantly sidelined and looking less-than-pleased while Regina flirted her way into the Sheriff of Nottingham's back pocket, securing the man's heart as well as the keys to the town coffers.

"What did the other woman look like?" Ana wants to know, bending back over the vase and fussing around with her arrangement while Will frowns at her, wondering if he's just walked himself into some sort of trap.

"Well I didn't – it's not like I was—"

"Was she prettier than Regina, do you think?"

Will clams up, more than certain he's in for it now. So this is what he gets, then, for trying to demonstrate what a thoughtful person he can be. This will surely teach him to reconsider the next time he decides to get in touch with his more sympathetic side.

Still, the tone Ana has taken with him thus far could only be described as one of harmless curiosity, and she's never been one to play mind games before. He squints at her in an oblique fashion, but she betrays nothing to him, her lovely face firmly placid as she finishes with the flowers and turns to put a kettle on the stove.

"Robin only has eyes for Regina," he says to her backside, stubbornly. "What bloody difference does it make what the other one might've been wearing, or how she'd done up her hair or what have you?"

"That's not my point, Will," sighs Ana, setting out two matching teacups and regarding him as though he were no better than one of her schoolchildren. "Regina is a gorgeous woman, is she not?"

Entirely unsure how he's supposed to respond to that, Will can only stammer out a "Yes – I mean, I suppose – I haven't really—"

And truly he's never paid Regina that much mind at all – at least nothing beyond a passing appreciation of her bow arm, and her ability to keep even the unruliest of Robin's men in check with a single, cutting raise of her brow. She's always dressed herself conservatively, whether out of practicality or personal preference Will can't say, and though her features _are_ distinctly feminine, he's never ventured to wonder at what's hidden underneath all those loose-fitting tunics and sensible cotton trousers.

Not to mention the fact that Robin may very well skin him alive for ever attempting to guess at such things.

At any rate, Will hardly knows what any of this has got to do with anything at all, which must be stated quite plainly on his face because Ana is saying to him then, very patiently, "No, of course you haven't."

"How is that a bad thing?" Will asks in a defensive manner. "Anastasia, you know very well how I feel about—"

But she doesn't seem a bit interested in any grand overtures of love he has to make to her today, shaking her head in a commiserating manner as she says, bafflingly, "Poor thing," then, "I can only imagine how frustrating it must be for her, having to deal with you lot all the time."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he protests, before adding an eager "Thanks, love" when she slides a tray of sunflower seed biscuits over to him.

"Always surrounded by men, with your mindless cavorting and your silly pursuits, not to mention rather poor concept of what passes as hygiene," Ana continues, listing off each offense with a growing passion, as though she's suffered in silence for far too long. "While you carry on being men, you don't realize what a burden it is for her to be treated as one too. I feel exhausted just thinking about it."

He struggles for a beat while she pours the tea, then hazards a rather pathetic-sounding "Well but of course we know she's not _actually_ a man."

"You still see her as one, more or less."

"We see her as one of our own," Will argues as he reaches for the cup Ana's just handed him, and he gazes appreciatively down through a steam cloud at the chrysanthemum petals and some other blossom he can't identify floating along the surface. "Besides, why would she want to be seen as a woman, anyway?"

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" Ana lifts a single, tart little brow at him from across the table. Will is struck with the sudden worry that she's picked up a thing or two from Regina, and then he's left wondering whether Ana isn't onto something after all, what secret grievances Regina might have confided to her regarding Robin's Merry Men.

He thinks of all the times he's turned to Regina with an indelicate observation about some desperate lass at the tavern, or one of John's numerous long-legged conquests, and he feels a bit dismayed with himself.

"Well," he tries reasoning again, "I'm sure being objectified or goggled at is the last thing Regina wants."

"How very like a man to consider that a valid point," Ana remarks, in such a way that Will realizes it had been a very wrong thing to say.

"I just believe Regina would prefer to be taken seriously, is all, and you know how we lads can get distracted from what's important when we've something pretty to look at." He gives Ana a sheepish sort of grin, hoping to charm her into forgiving the more inherent flaws of his sex, but she's unmoved.

She takes a careful sip of her tea, sweeps her golden locks to one side and tugs free a minor wrinkle in her skirts before wondering, too innocently, "Are you suggesting that a woman can't be respected or taken seriously if she's dressed as one?"

Will's face falls. His thoughts turn guiltily over her own appearance – without question the most breathtaking of all, no offense intended for Robin – and how he'd never once presumed her to be frivolous or simpleminded because she cares after the way she looks, particularly when she does so with such a quiet, unassuming sort of confidence.

How could he, after all, when he's done nothing but impose upon her good graces, living in the cottage she tends to while he's away (cavorting about, as she'd so aptly put it), helping himself to the things she's put on their table, and loving her wholly, selfishly, all because she's allowed it of him?

Taking pity on him then, Ana glides over to his side, settling gently into his lap with a soft smile that he hardly deserves. Her arms drape over his shoulders, and he moves his to encircle her waist with a despondent sigh.

"You're a good man, Will Scarlet," she declares to him, and though he thinks that's a bit generous of her, he's come to realize, in all these years of getting to love her, that it's a rather useless thing to argue when she's decided to be right about something.

…

In the days that follow, Will begins to notice a subtle change in Regina.

They're small things, really, and at first he's half-certain he's only imagined them, the vaguely floral scent that lingers after she's stalked by, a glint of something golden at her earlobe that could simply be a trick of the sunlight. There's a rosier glow to her cheeks than before, a faint but lasting flush that one might easily attribute to the unseasonable chill in the air (though Will has his doubts).

Her lips somehow have more color to them too, a touch of rouge now adding to the fire in that customary scowl of hers. Most curiously, Robin seems to have taken a liking to that shade as well, wearing it in subtle smears on his tunic collar, pressed along the underside of his jaw and even one corner of a pleased little smile as he leaves their tent in the mornings.

Still, as Ana had made so thoroughly apparent, Will's not particularly knowledgeable when it comes to the art of being a lady, and a proper one at that. Determined to remain impartial from now on, he keeps his thoughts to himself – though that blouse Regina's got on one evening appears to have taken greater liberties with the amount of collarbone it normally shows, and hold on a minute, but Will could have sworn that Ana owned a rather similar style and cut…

(She's frustratingly evasive about it when he asks, slyly pressing her plump pink lips to his in a kiss that effectively silences him for some time before he's realized she'd never given him any real answer.)

But he's not the only one of Robin's men who's sensed that something's different, it seems – unless Will's imagining that too, the way Much develops an unfortunate stutter whenever Regina happens nearby, or how even John starts to hold himself somewhat straighter while the two of them consult their maps, discussing the finer points of a break-in they've devised together.

"You're looking quite lovely today, Regina," Will hears someone saying sincerely as he holds out a bowl to her at breakfast, realizing too late that he'd been the one who'd spoken. He's recoiling the instant the words make their escape, fully expecting some withering reply, or at the very least another one of those dark-eyed glares to scrape mercilessly over him as he stands there and fumbles stupidly with his own bowl.

Much to his surprise, however, she only graces him with an enigmatic half-smile before taking her porridge to the gardens at the edge of camp, leaving Will to puzzle over what exactly had just come over him then.

Friar Tuck is tending to a leafy row of beetroot when Regina makes her approach, and perhaps it's more than just the physical exertion that has him blushing furiously when she hands him her share of breakfast.

It's the hair, Will thinks, that finally does it.

For as long as he's known her, this woman who'd blown into their lives like some storm at sea, she's never cared to tame her hair any more than she has her temper, always thrown to one side in some riotous fashion. He secretly suspects that Robin rather prefers it that way; the man may be judicious about keeping his hands from wandering in ways that ought to stay private, but he's hardly shy about nudging a nose into her loose-flowing locks, or unraveling her braid with a teasing finger in front of all his men.

The thought of Regina bothering with a hairbrush (the idea of her _owning_ a hairbrush) or sitting still for a mirror is in fact so preposterous to Will that the first time she breezes by target practice with her hair actually looking halfway tamed, he's so taken aback that poor Anton the giant nearly winds up with an arrow to his backside.

She'd taken small sections of her hair and twisted them into a simple sort of knot at the back of her head, the remaining tresses left down but glossier than Will recalls them ever being, all but gliding wherever the autumn air reaches to tease at them. Robin takes to casually toying with the ends while Regina conducts their weekly meetings, commanding as ever and utterly unimpressed by the men suddenly tripping over their feet and finding themselves at a loss for intelligent things to say in her presence.

If Robin's aware of how useless his men have become and why, he makes no indication of it apart from the occasional smug side-eye, or a hand at Regina's waist that could be considered almost possessive. He alone seems unaffected by her newfound interest in such things as lip paints and bobby pins, or at least no more affected than usual, and Will supposes there can exist few truer signs of a man's love than that.

He eventually recovers enough from the shock to recognize Ana's handiwork in Regina's subtle transformation, accustomed as he is to his own love's characteristic style, the way her hair's always done up in some polished and elegant manner (though he's yet to witness the effort behind it all, half-guessing it to be nothing short of sorcery).

And while Regina's brand of beauty is not precisely that – a bit more carefully attended to now, certainly, but still rather understated, without losing that touch of wildness Robin is clearly so partial to – Will is quite convinced of the part Ana had played in all this, and he is captivated by her all the more for it.

Of course, try as he might to happen upon them conspiring together, he never once catches a glimpse of Ana's pale pink skirts anywhere near the campsite, not an echo of her tinkling, bell-like laugh nor a hint of the rosewater that always seems to follow her everywhere (stayed on her pillows in the blurred-grey mornings, lingering in his clothes but fading steadily, regrettably, throughout the day the longer he's away from her).

He briefly takes to eavesdropping, loitering by Regina and Robin's shared tent for longer than is considered polite until Robin is suddenly beside him, asking pleasantly whether he can be of any assistance and smiling in a bemused way at Will's mumbled, nonsensical answers before he's hastily excusing himself and shuffling off.

He invariably finds Ana calmly pouring the tea and setting out dinner by the time he's returned to their cottage, without a thing to suggest she'd been entertaining guests while he was gone, and he's forced to concede that his curiosity will likely never be satisfied as far as they're concerned.

Perhaps there is magic in all women, then, in more ways than he'll ever know.

…

The spell Regina had cast over camp finally shows its first signs of breaking when she arrives for weapons training one frosty afternoon, attired in a fur-lined vest, white leather gloves, and a dress. It's modestly styled, to be sure, but a dress all the same, with slender-long sleeves and a flattering taper from the waist down, hemline falling to just reveal (but only just) her more practical choice of footwear beneath.

Dumbfounded, the men can do no more than stare at Regina, as though seeing her true for the first time – this _woman_ she'd apparently been hiding within her all along, standing so unapologetically before them now – and they have no bloody clue what it is they're supposed to do with her.

Then it seems to occur to them the sheer lunacy of such a woman not only carrying a sword but preparing to use it, and they're giggling self-consciously amongst themselves when she draws her blade with an impatient expression, gesturing imperiously for someone to join her in the dueling circle. Their incredulous, laughing faces abruptly flatten then, the fog lifting enough for them to recall that she's not just a woman at all but Regina, one of their own kind, and Much, gulping, shoves Will forward.

"Sorry, mate. Take one for the team, eh?" says the lad, helpfully pressing a scabbard into his hands.

"But it won't be a fair fight," Will protests, loudly, to the gathering crowd. He observes Robin standing leisurely off to one side, disappearing his smirk behind a bright red apple. "I can't…I can't in good conscience beat a _woman_!" Will waits for the men to voice their indignation, exclaiming for him to _mind his manners_ and _fight her like any other man, if you know what's good for you!_ , and then he sends a subtle wink Regina's way.

"And what kind of 'woman' is it that you think I am, Will Scarlet?" she wants to know, with a coy tilt of her head and a smile that shows every last one of her teeth.

"Oh, you're in for it now," comes Little John's warning, rumbling with anticipation.

"Right, then," Will says under his breath, rolling his shoulders loose. "Let's get on with this, shall we?" He has every intention of putting up the best damn fight he's got – it would be a great disservice to her, indeed, to do anything less – but then he takes a better look at her, standing there like some bloody warrior princess, lethal in both looks as well as her skills with a blade, and it shakes up his resolve more than he'd like to admit.

Here is an opponent unlike any other he's faced before – which is absolutely ridiculous, he reminds himself, she'd been his sparring partner just the other week (…not that it ended all that well for him then, either). Meanwhile, she's coolly regarding him as though she routinely has men like him for supper, and this, he thinks, _this_ is Regina, perhaps only just discovering these untapped sides herself, learning to own her womanhood and all the power that comes with it.

Will swallows audibly and assumes his usual stance – or some rough approximation of one, as it seems he's quite forgotten where his feet ought to be placed or how he's supposed to hold his sword. Regina hikes her skirts up to one knee for mobility's sake, and there's something unsettling in the too-graceful way she starts to approach him, a predator in the most dangerous sense of the word, one who has a point to prove, and he knows he's lost before she even strikes.

The sparring exercise is over embarrassingly quickly, with Will splayed gracelessly on the forest floor, sweating profusely despite the cold, heaving to find his breath around the sword tip Regina's leveled within an inch of his throat. The other men are positively beside themselves now, unable to contain the raucous sounds of their delight.

"That's…but that was plainly cheating," Will says, hoarsely, barely heard above the noise as Regina props him gingerly up against a tree. There's not so much as a sheen to her face, he notices, while the perspiration beads and dribbles down his nose. "You had the unfair advantage of – of being—"

She steps shrewdly away to survey his profile for any lasting damages, and he scowls at her, the both of them knowing full well that his pride smarts more than any blow he's sustained to the ribs. Or his left shin. Or that spot in his side where she'd exhibited an impressive degree of agility despite that damnable gown, with a well-aimed kick that left him wheezing on all fours.

He'll claim for days, of course, that he'd thrown the fight – what sort of man would he be to _not_ let the lady win, after all? – if only to keep encouraging the heated exclamations of the other men, clamoring instinctively to her defense.

"Regina may have held the advantage, to be sure, but she beat you fair and square," Little John is pointing out rather gleefully. "Not to mention a good half minute faster than usual."

"That's right, Will," pipes up Much, looking much less frightened and much more confident now that he knows he's chosen the winning side. "Maybe to level the playing field next time you ought to borrow some of Anastasia's clothes to practice in? Gods – women, really – only know what additional skill it takes to master that sort of…well…" He searches carefully for just the right word before finishing with a solemn, "Everything."

Will has no response to that, put-upon or otherwise, and he slumps tiredly to the ground with a wince. Regina graciously hands him a waterskin, and he mumbles his _thanks you_ s while his so-called mates continue to trade good-natured insults at his expense.

"Men," Regina mutters with a half-affectionate, half-exasperated glance toward Robin, who's winding his way over to them, looking too close to exploding with barely-held laughter. "Honestly. Sometimes I think the only thing they're good for is annoying me."

"We are a pretty useless lot," Will says agreeably, while Robin closes his arms around Regina's waist and pulls her back flush with his chest, paying not a bit of mind to the sword still loosely held in her grip.

"I try to tell her this on a daily basis," Robin remarks dryly, "but she can't be convinced not to give up on us quite yet." Regina, not even bothering to roll her eyes this time, tucks her head beneath his chin, stealing away his half-eaten apple and sinking a satisfied little smile into its skin.

The next day she's returned to wearing things a touch more suited for life in the woods, soft blouses and form-fitting pants in place of that ivory muslin gown (Will is hardly surprised when he spots it tucked away into the very back of Ana's closet some weeks later). Gone are the darkly striking eyes – not that her gaze will ever lack for that depthless, piercing quality – as are the pigmented lip stains on Robin's collar and that exposed stretch of throat just above it.

Regina's hair is the one concession she's made to her appearance, never again quite as carelessly windswept as it had once been, but Will supposes that's more for Robin's benefit than any of the other men; they needn't any reminders, after all, that she is no more or less a woman for it, and no more or less a Merry Man at that.


	6. Hers

In which there is a question of whose heart belongs to whom, and Regina makes it clear what her thoughts are on the matter. Companion piece to _(Pretty) Woman_. Rated M.

* * *

 _Hers_

* * *

They'd gone to bed later than usual that night, after a row over something rather trivial had left them both spent and simmering with unfinished anger.

He had been the ridiculous one this time, Robin knew – they were in the middle of a job and he really ought to have kept a level head, but the fact of the matter was that he never could seem to think objectively whenever the Sheriff of Nottingham was involved.

"You're being absurd," Regina had scolded him heatedly while he nursed his throbbing hand, sincerely hoping that he hadn't broken something else apart from that smug bastard's nose. "We talked about this, Robin."

"Odd," he'd shot back, "I don't recall discussing the necessity of having his bloody tongue down your throat – or was that part of the plan implied when you told me the Sheriff would be taken care of?"

It had required a tremendous effort on her part, he could tell, not to walk out on him then and cool down elsewhere for the night. They'd eventually fallen into their bedroll with worlds of unspoken grief still lying between them, though sometime over the course of the evening he must have found his way back to her, rolling to her side of the blankets. He wakes up there before sunrise, with an arm draped over her waist, her hair spread silky-smooth beneath his cheek.

He kisses her shoulder by way of good morning, and all the leftover tension in his body loosens away the instant she turns into him with a half-conscious sigh.

"Hi," she says, the remnants of sleep still scraping over her throat, and then she's stretching the full length of her body to match with his, nudging her nose along his chin and whispering there, "I love you."

"And I you," he returns, pulling away just enough to get a good look at her – his favorite thing to do upon waking, catching her in these rare moments before the day has brought her guard back up – and savoring everything that he sees.

They hadn't had the time to wash up before bed, preoccupied as they were with creating a scene in front of his men (he cringes to think of the painfully awkward faces Will and Little John had exchanged with each other before they made themselves scarce). Regina's dark, lovely eyes – with a smile now crinkling their corners as she gazes up at him – are still lined in that smoky grey shadow she'd recently taken to experimenting with, those sometimes-scowling lips of hers painted in a rather fetching shade of deep red wine.

The color there has somehow, miraculously, only just begun to fade, despite the Sheriff's most dogged efforts at claiming it all for himself. The fury Robin had felt toward him mere hours before is but a distant memory now – yesterday has gone, and that man hardly matters, he knows, when there's never been any true doubt in his mind as to where Regina's heart belongs.

Still, he rather dislikes the knowledge of where her lips had settled last – perhaps this makes him no better, but he is only a man in love, after all – and so Robin leans close and presses a kiss to her mouth, determined to chase away the taste of that blasted Sheriff however he can.

He feels her smile into him, as though she knows exactly what he's on about, but her lips part with her next breath, silently inviting, and he slips his tongue in to glide along hers. Her hands reach to cradle his jawline, his to bunch away their blankets and grasp at her backside, and for one delirious, infinite moment, he simply kisses her, and kisses her, and kisses her.

And then it reaches that feverish point of not-quite-enough, and he breaks from her with a strangled sort of sound and moves to her throat next, sucking wet, open-mouthed kisses over her pulse point, while her body slides against his in a restless sort of ecstasy.

"You know, this is not the worst way to wake up in the morning," she says to him, voice husky-low with desire as he palms her rear, squeezing, and angles his mouth lower, nosing the neckline of her nightgown aside, dragging tongue and teeth over skin and collarbone until he's reached the swell of one breast. "Maybe I should make out with the Sheriff more often."

Robin bites down to express his disapproval and she arches, gasping, into him, welcoming the bruising little kisses he gives the darkened center of one nipple, and she's more than breathless by the time he's turned his attentions to the other side.

Not to be outdone, Regina brushes her thigh against him, slow and deliberate, and he releases a groan that splinters apart halfway through, dropping his forehead into her chest as the lightest touch to his stiffening cock shakes him with unbearable pleasure. His hand roams away from her bottom to the front of her, rucking up her hemline to find her bare for him beneath (the discovery has him hardening further, aching to feel more of her, always), dipping between her thighs, and she clenches around his fingers as he slips two of them inside.

"Gods, you're wet," he mutters, adding a third and finding that bundle of nerves with the pad of his thumb, circling and rubbing while Regina writhes against him with a heady moan. She grabs blindly at his collar, tugging and tugging until he catches on, and they make quick work of their clothes, abandoning shirts and undergarments before settling back into each other, burning everywhere they touch.

Robin takes a nipple back between his teeth as he presses his fingers into her once more, renewing his efforts to drive her half-wild, but then she's grasping at his hair with something like desperation and he moves obligingly, shifting upward to find her lips instead. The rigid length of him passes against her center, where his fingers have set a steady in-and-out rhythm, stealing small, heavenly sounds from her with each thrust in again.

Her mouth opens for him, slanting over his in a heated tangle of tongue as he pulls his fingers away, stroking the tip of his cock over her opening, back and forth and back again, until her legs are closing around the jut of his hips, grinding their lower bodies together.

"Robin," sighs Regina, and he presses her over and onto her back in answer, hips pinning her down to their bed. The friction between them climbs to some exquisite degree, and he leans his elbows on either side of her torso to watch as she reaches down to grasp him.

His mouth falls to her neck, muffling his groan as he pushes into her, feeling the snug warmth of her stretching for him until he's buried deep inside. She's biting a lip when he lifts his head again, clutching his shoulders and looking more bloody gorgeous than he's ever seen her, here in these long rapturous seconds while they both stray into that blissful sensation of their bodies joining at last.

He reaches to kiss her, a brief, clumsy movement of lips over lips as he rests their foreheads together, and then they can do no more than breathe shallowly into each other, his hips rising to rock slowly back into her, just how he knows she likes it in these quiet, early hours before dawn.

"You feel incredible," he murmurs, and she tips her chin up, dotting a kiss to the tip of his nose.

"The others will be up soon," she tells him – gasps, really – with a teasing half-smile waiting for him by the time he's recovered enough of his senses to raise an incredulous eyebrow at her.

"Is that a challenge, milady, or are you truly telling me to hurry things along?" he wants to know, teasingly stern, and he rolls his hips into her punishingly for good measure. Her lashes grow heavy, hands chasing shivers across his chest and spine, and then she's cupping his face, turning his ear toward her mouth.

"I want you to make me scream before they're awake to hear it," she whispers to him, and it's the sexiest damn thing he's ever heard, the words going straight to his cock.

That he will happily do, Robin thinks with an answering shudder, and he braces himself onto one elbow now, lifting a hand free to wander over the rest of her body. He fills his palm with a breast before lowering to grasp her ribcage, then further down still, waist and hip until he's gripped the underside of her thigh.

Regina's lashes flutter, another throaty sound leaving her as he bends her leg back just so, and he's thrusting into her again (so good – gods – yes – fuck) when he hears the crunch of leaves outside, followed by the loud and entirely unwelcome voice of Will bloody Scarlet fairly yelling out across camp, "Oy! Robin! Don't forget – we've got Granny's crew comin' round with our supplies! Ten minutes, tops!"

There's a moment of silence, dreadfully still, then Robin's sagging into Regina and muttering, "I could kill him. I could very well kill him right now."

Ten minutes is perfectly manageable, he supposes, but he'd so wanted to take his time with her, making love until they can scarcely breathe let alone leave their tent, and if the jarring nature of their interruption hasn't already done so, plotting another man's murder is certainly one way of ruining the mood. He grunts miserably, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Regina's mouth, and he's about to lift himself away from her, every part of him already longing to make their return, when she reaches to stop him.

"Where do you think you're going?" she demands, then, "Lie on your back." Robin knits his brows together, hesitating just long enough for her to sigh and nudge him over herself, their bodies separating briefly while she sits up and straddles his thighs.

"This will only take a minute," she winks before bending down.

"Regina," he starts, and then words fail him utterly at the sight of her leaning over his cock, still glistening from the time he'd spent inside her. He can only watch, captivated, as she takes him in hand and proceeds to lick him clean of her, her tongue pressing against the tip with a slow, tortuous swirl that he'd – gods – done absolutely nothing to deserve.

The look of her is a breathtaking thing, sucking at his cock, cheeks hollowing as she slides him between her wine-stained lips, and no, Robin thinks as some incoherent noise lodges itself in his throat, no, he doesn't deserve her at all, this absolute goddess of a woman. He reaches to snag trembling fingers in her hair, feeling her move as she takes him in, over, and over, until she's robbing him of sight and sound, leaving little else but an intense, paralyzing pleasure as he gasps her name and comes in her mouth at last.

He's still wobbly-kneed, vision blurred at the edges by the time he's able to stand, and he goes about attempting to dress himself with somewhat limited success. He eventually lets Regina take over, when lacing up his boots proves too complicated a task for him to manage on his own.

Once she's finished fastening his vest, he snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her close, thinking he's at least another minute yet to enjoy this, her. She rests a palm to his chest as he nuzzles a kiss into her hair, whispering, "I've every intention of having you properly later, just so you're aware." He lets his hand wander down, down, touching her through the thin cotton blanket she'd draped over herself. Her body arches into his, and then she's reaching to kiss his jawline, his neck, the collar of the tunic she'd helped him button, before moving away.

"Consider me aware," she flirts over her shoulder, with a coy gaze that heats up his insides, and as she turns again he notices that the red on her lips has, at last, been most thoroughly kissed away.

"There you are," says Will impatiently when Robin emerges from his tent, blinking out the sunlight as he strides gingerly over to join the lad by the cooking fire. "I was just about to—" Will stops short, attention caught just above Robin's shoulder, and he eyes him with something too close to understanding before mentioning, casually, "You've got a little, you know, there, on your shirt."

The sounds of an approaching carriage save him from having to respond, and while a distracted Will hollers his greetings to Granny Lucas, Robin's mind wanders back to his tent, to Regina. He thinks of those richly colored lips, of the kisses she had left on him here, and there, and…well…elsewhere, and he smiles to know all of what she's marked as hers, and all the ways he'll return the favor.


End file.
